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SONGS   OF  THE   SILENT 
WORLD 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

ELIZABETH    STUART   PHELPS 


BOSTON 
HOUGHTON,  M1FFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street 

C&e  fftoerside  $re£ 
1885 


Copyright,  1884, 
BY  ELIZABETH   STUART  PHELPS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


'Dear!     Is  the  distance  vast?     I  cross  it  here. 
The  chasm  fathomless  ?     I  span  it  thus. 
The  silence  dread?     I  break  it.      What  is  fear  ? 
When,  only  our  own  hearts  can  sever  us. 

The  gold  and  frankincense  I  should  have  given, 
Envy  the  myrrh  I  Jay  -within  your  hand  ; 
T)earer  to  me  than  fame  of  earth  or  heaven 
It  is,  to  know  that  you  will  understand. 


M504968 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

AFTERWARD • 

RELEASED 

THE  ROOM'S  WIDTH J5 

/THE  FIRST  CHRISTMAS  APART        .               •       •  l& 

THE  ANGEL  JOY  .....        •        •        •  l<& 

«  ABSENT  ! "       .        .        .        ...        •        •        •  2O 

THE  UNSEEN  COMRADES      , 23 

STRONGER  THAN  DEATH 25 

II. 

VlTTORIA         .  .  .....  .  •  -37 

NEW  NEIGHBORS      .        ....        .        .        •  4° 

BY  THE  HEARTH         .        ....        •        •        •  42 

TOLD  IN  CONFIDENCE      .        ....        •        •  44 

WHAT  THE  VIOLINS  SAID    ....        .        •        •  45 

WON •        •        •        •  47 

SPENT 4s 

PARTED 5° 

AN  APRIL  GUST          .        .       .     .  •       •       •        •  52 

v    THE  ANSWER 53 


vi  CONTENTS. 

THORNS 56 

THE  INDIAN  GIRL 57 

SEALED 58 

GUINEVERE 59 

SUNG  TO  A  FRIEND 64 

INCOMPLETION 66 

RAPE'S  CHASM 67 

GALATEA 69 

PART  OF  THE  PRICE 72 

EURYDICE 74 

ELAINE  AND  ELAINE 77 

III. 

THE  POET  AND  THE  POEM 81 

OVERTASKED     . 87 

STRANDED 88 

GLOUCESTER  HARBOR 90 

THE  TERRIBLE  TEST 92 

MY  DREAMS  ARE  OF  THE  SEA       ....  94 

SONG     .        .        . 95 

AN  INTERPRETATION 96 

THE  SPHINX 97 

VICTUR^;  SALUTAMUS      .       .        .       .               .  99 

THE  ERMINE 100 

UNQUENCHED 102 

THE  KING'S  IMAGE 104 

IV. 

AT  THE  PARTY 109 

A  JEWISH  LEGEND       ...  ...  113 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

V. 

THE  SONGS  OF  SEVENTY  YEARS     .        .        .        .119 

BIRTHDAY  VERSES 122 

A  TRIBUTE 125 

To  O.  W.  H 127 

WHOSE  SHALL  THE  WELCOME  BE  ?       .       .       .128 

EXEAT 13° 

GEORGE  ELIOT 131 

HER  JURY    .        . 133 

VI. 

A  PRAYER.  (MATINS.) 137 

AN  ACKNOWLEDGMENT 14° 

HYMN 141 

ANSWERED J44 

WESTWARD.       .  J45 

THREE  FRIENDS J46 

A  NEW  FRIEND I5° 

AN  ETCHING I5I 

To  MY  FATHER T52 

THE  GATES  BETWEEN 153 

A  PRAYER.    (VESPERS.) 154 


I. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SILENT  WORLD. 


AFTERWARD. 

THERE    is    no   vacant    chair.     The    loving 

meet  — 
A  group  unbroken  —  smitten,  who  knows 

how? 

One  sitteth  silent  only,  in  his  usual  seat ; 
We  gave  him   once  that  freedom.     Why 
not  now  ? 

Perhaps  he  is  too  weary,  and  needs  rest ; 

He  needed  it  too  often,  nor  could  we 
Bestow.     God  gave  it,  knowing  how  to  do  so 

best. 

Which    of  us  would    disturb    him  ?      Let 
him  be. 


12  AFTERWARDS. 

There  is  no  vacant  chair.     If  he  will  take 

The  mood  to  listen  mutely,  be  it  done. 
By  his  least  mood  we  crossed,  for  which  the 

heart  must  ache, 

Plead  not  nor  question  !      Let  him  have 
this  one. 

Death  is  a  mood  of  life.     It  is  no  whim 
By   which   life's    Giver    mocks    a   broken 

heart. 
Death    is   life's   reticence.     Still  audible   to 

Him, 

The   hushed   voice,    happy,    speaketh    on, 
apart. 

There  is  no  vacant  chair.     To  love  is  still 

To  have.     Nearer  to  memory  than  to  eye, 
And  dearer  yet  to  anguish  than  to  comfort, 

will 

We  hold  him  by  our  love,  that  shall  not 
die. 

For  while  it  doth  not,  thus  he  cannot.     Try ! 
Who  can  put  out  the  motion  or  the  smile  ? 


AFTERWARDS.  13 

The  old  ways  of  being  noble  all  with  him 

laid  by  ? 

Because    we     love,    he    is.     Then     trust 
awhile. 


RELEASED. 

OH,  joy  of  the  dying ! 

At  last  thou  art  mine. 

And  leaping  to  meet  thee, 

Impatient  to  greet  thee, 

A  rapid  and  rapturous,  sensitive,  fine 

Gayety  steals  through  my  pulses  to-day, 

Daring  and  doubting  like  pleasure 

Forbidden,  or  Winter  looking  at  May. 

Oh,  sorrow  of  living  ! 
Make  way  for  the  thrill 
Of  the  soul  that  is  starting  — 
Onlooking  —  departing 
Across  the  threshold  of  clay. 
Bend,  bow  to  the  will 
Of  the  soul  that  is  up  and  away ! 
(H) 


THE   ROOM'S   WIDTH. 

I  THINK  if  I  should  cross  the  room, 

Far  as  fear ; 
Should  stand  beside  you  like  a  thought  — 

Touch  you,  Dear  !  • 

Like  a  fancy.     To  your  sad  heart 

It  would  seem 
That  my  vision  passed  and  prayed  you, 

Or  my  dream. 

Then  you  would  look  with  lonely  eyes  — 

Lift  your  head  — 

And  you  would  stir,  and  sigh,  and  say  — 
"  She  is  dead." 

Baffled  by  death  and  love,  I  lean 

Through  the  gloom. 
O  Lord  of  life !  am  I  forbid 

To  cross  the  room  ? 


THE   FIRST   CHRISTMAS   APART. 

THE  shadows  watch  about  the  house ; 

Silent  as  they,  I  come. 
Oh,  it  is  true  that  life  is  deaf, 

And  not  that  death  is  dumb. 

The  Christmas  thrill  is  on  the  earth, 

The  stars  throb  in  the  sky. 
Love  listens  in  a  thousand  homes,— 

The  Christmas  bells  ring  by. 

I  cross  the  old  familiar  door 

And  take  the  dear  old  chair. 
You  look  with  desolated  eyes 

Upon  me  sitting  there. 

You  gaze  and  see  not,  though  the  tears 

In  gazing  burn  and  start. 
Believe,  the  living  are  the  blind, 

Not  that  the  dead  depart. 
(16) 


THE  FIRST  CHRISTMAS  APART.  \J 

A  year  ago  some  words  we  said 

Kept  sacred  'twixt  us  twain, 
'T  is  you,  poor.  Love,  who  answer  not, 

The  while  I  speak  again. 

I  lean  above  you  as  before, 

Faithful,  my  arms  enfold. 
Oh,  could  you  know  that  life  is  numb, 

Nor  think  that  death  is  cold ! 

Senses  of  earth,  how  weak  ye  are ! 

Joys,  joys  of  Heaven  how  strong ! 
Loves  of  the  earth,  how  short  and  sad, 

Of  Heaven  how  glad  and  long ! 

Heart  of  my  heart  !  if  earth  or  Heaven 

Had  speech  or  language  fine 
Enough,  or  death  or  life  could  give 

Me  symbol,  sound,  or  sign 

To  reach  you  —  thought,  or  touch,  or  eye, 

Body  or  soul  —  I  'd  die 
Again,  to  make  you  understand : 

My  darling  !     This  is  /  / 


THE  ANGEL  JOY. 

OH,    was    it    a    death -dream    not   dreamed 
through, 

That  eyed  her  like  a  foe  ? 
Or  only  a  sorrow  left  over  from  life, 

Half-finished  years  ago  ? 

How  long  was  it  since  she  died  —  who  told? 

Or  yet  what  was  death  —  who  knew  ? 
She  said  :  "  I  am  come  to  Heaven  at  last, 

And  I  '11  do  as  the  blessed  do." 

But  the  custom  of  earth  was  stronger  than 
Heaven, 

And  the  habit  of  life  than  death, 
How  should  an  anguish  as  old  as  thought 

Be  healed  by  the  end  of  breath  ? 

Tissue  and  nerve  and  pulse  of  her  soul 
Had  absorbed  the  disease  of  woe. 

(18) 


THE  ANGEL  JOY.  19 

The  strangest  of  all  the  angels  there 
Was  Joy.     (Oh,  the  wretched  know  !) 

"  I  am  too  tired  with  earth,"  she  said, 

"  To  rest  me  in  Paradise. 
Give  me  a  spot  to  creep  away, 

And  close  my  heavy  eyes. 

"  I  must  learn  to  be  happy  in  Heaven,"  she 
said, 

"  As  we  learned  to  suffer  below."  — 
"  Our  ways  are  not  your  ways,"  he  said, 

"  And  ours  the  ways  you  go." 

As  love,  too  wise  for  a  word,  puts  by 

All  a  woman's  weak  alarms, 
Joy  hushed  her  lips,  and  gathered  her 

Into  his  mighty  arms. 

He  took  her  to  his  holy  heart, 

And  there  —  for  he  held  her  fast  — 

The  saddest  spirit  in  the  world, 
Came  to  herself  at  last. 


"ABSENT!"1 

You  do  not  lift  your  eyes  to  watch 

Us  pass  the  conscious  door  ; 
Your  startled  ear  perceiveth  not 

Our  footfall  on  the  floor  ; 
No  eager  word  your  lips  betray 

To  greet  us  when  we  stand  ; 
We  throng  to  meet  you,  but  you  hold 

To  us  no  beckoning  hand. 

Faint  as  the  years  in  which  we  breathed, 

Far  as  the  death  we  died, 
Dim  as  the  faded  battle-smoke, 

We  wander  at  your  side  ; 
Cold  as  a  cause  outlived,  or  lost, 

Vague  as  the  legends  told 
At  twilight,  of  a  mystic  band 

Circling  an  Age  of  Gold. 

1  Written  for  the   Centennial   Celebration  at   Andover 
Phillips  Academy. 

(20) 


ABSENT!  2 1 

Unseen,  unheard,  unfelt  —  and  yet, 

Beneath  the  army  blue 
Our  heart-beats  sounded  real  enough 

When  we  were  boys  like  you. 
We  turned  us  from  your  fabled  lore, 

With  ancient  passion  rife  ; 
No  myth,  our  solemn  laying  down 

t)f  love,  and  hope,  and  life. 

No  myth,  the  clasped  and  severed  hands, 

No  dream,  the  last  replies. 
Upon  the  desolated  home 

To-day,  the  sunlight  lies. 
Take,  sons  of  peace,  your  heritage  — 

Our  loss,  your  legacy  ; 
Our  action  be  your  fables  fair, 

Our  facts,  your  poetry. 

O  ye  who  fall  on  calmer  times  ! 

The  perils  of  the  calm 
Are  yours  —  the  swell,  the  sloth,  the  sleep, 

The  carelessness  of  harm, 
The  keel  that  rides  the  gale,  to  strike 

Where  the  warm  waves  are  still ; 


22  ABSENT! 

Ours  were  the  surf,  the  stir,  the  shock, 
The  tempest  and  the  thrill. 

Comrades,  be  yours  that  vigor  old, 

Be  yours  the  elected  power 
That  fits  a  man,  like  rock  to  tide, 

To  his  appointed  hour ; 
Yours  to  become  all  that  we  were, 

And  all  we  might  have  been ; 
Yours  the  fine  eye  that  separates 

The  unseen  from  the  seen. 


THE  UNSEEN  COMRADES.1 

LAST  night  I  saw  an  armed  band,  whose  feet 
Did   take   the    martial    step,  although    they 

trod 

Soundless  as  waves  of  light  upon  the  air. 
(Silent  from  silent  lips  the  bugle  fell.) 
The  wind  was  wild  ;  but  the  great  flag  they 

bore, 

Hung  motionless,  and  glittered  like  a  god 
Above  their  awful  faces  while  they  marched. 
And  when  I  saw,  I  understood  and  said  — 
"  If  these  are  they  whom  we  did  love,  and 

give, 

What   seek   they  ? "      But   one   sternly   an 
swered  me,  — 

"  We  seek  our  comrades  whom  we  left  to 
thee: 

1  Written  for  the    benefit  of   the   Soldiers'    Home  at 
Chelsea,  Massachusetts. 

(23) 


24  THE    UNSEEN  COMRADES. 

The  weak,  who  were  thy  strength  ;  the  poor, 

who  had 
Thy  pride  ;  the  faint   and  few  who  gave  to 

thee 

One  supreme  hour  from  out  the  day  of  life, 
One  deed  majestic  to  their  century. 
These  were  thy  trust :  how  fare  they  at  thy 

hands  ? 
Thy   saviors    then  —  are   they   thy   heroes 

now  ? 
Our  comrades  still ;  we  keep  the  step  with 

them, 

Behold !  As  thou  unto  the  least  of  them 
Shalt  do,  so  dost  thou  unto  us.     Amen'' 


STRONGER  THAN  DEATH 

WHO  shall  tell  the  story 

As  it  was  ? 
Write  it  with  the  heart's  blood  ? 

(Pale  ink,  alas !) 
Speak  it  with  the  soul's  lips, 

Or  be  dumb  ? 
Tell  me,  singers  fled,  and 

Song  to  come ! 

No  answer  ;  like  a  shell  the  silence  curls, 
And  far  within  it  leans  a  whisper  out, 

Breathless  and  inarticulate,  and  whirls 
And  dies  as  dies  an  ailing  dread  or  doubt. 

And   I  —  since  there   is   found   none    else 

than  I, 

No  stronger,  sweeter  voice  than  mine,  to 
tell 

(25) 


26  STRONGER    THAN  DEATH, 

This  tale  of  love  that  cannot  stoop  to  die  — 
Were  fain  to  be  the  whisper  in  the  shell ; 

Were  fain  to  lose  and  spend  myself  within 
The  sacred  silence  of  one  mighty  heart, 

And  leaning  from  it,  hidden  there,  to  win 
Some  finer  ear  that,  listening,  bends  apart. 

"  Fly  for  your  lives  !  "     The  entrails  of  the 

earth 

Trembled,  resounding  to  the  cry, 
That,  like  a  chasing  ghost,  around  the  mine 
Crept    ghastly :     "  The     pit 's     on    fire ! 
Fly ! " 

The  shaft,  a  poisoned  throat  whose  breath 
was  death, 

Like  hell  itself  grown  sick  of  sin, 
Hurled  up  the  men  ;  haggard  and  terrible  ; 

Leaping  upon  us  through  the  din 

That   all   our  voices   made ;    and   back   we 

shrank 
From  them  as  from  the  starting  dead ; 


STRONGER   THAN  DEATH.  2f 

Recoiling,  shrieked,  but  knew  not  why  we 

shrieked  ; 
And  cried,  but  knew  not  what  we  said. 

And  still  that  awful  mouth  did  toss  them  up : 
"  The  last  is  safe  !     The  last  is  sound  !  " 

We  sobbed  to  see  them  where  they  sunk  and 

crawled, 
Like  beaten  hounds,  upon  the  ground. 

Some    sat    with     lolling,    idiot     head,    and 

laughed  ; 

One  reached  to  clutch  the  air  away 
His  gasping  lips  refused  ;  some  cursed  ;  and 

one 
Knelt  down  —  but  he  was  old  —  to  pray. 

We  huddled  there  together  all  that  night, 
Women  and  men  from  the  wild  Town  ; 

I  heard  a  shrill  voice  cry,  "  We  all  are  up, 
But  some  —  ye  have  forgot  —  are  down  !  " 

"  Who  is  forgot  ? "     We  stared  from  face  to 

face ; 
But  answering  through  the  dark,  she  said 


28  STRONGER    THAN  DEATH. 

(It  was  a  woman) :  "  Eh,  ye  need  not  fret ; 
None  is  forgot  except  the  dead. 

"The    buried    dead    asleep     there    in    the 
works  — 

Eh,  Lord  !     It  must  be  hot  below  ! 
Ye  '11  keep  'em  waking  all  the  livelong  night, 

To  set  the  mine  a-burning  so  !  " 

And  all  the  night  the  mine  did  burn  and 

burst, 

As  if  the  earth  were  but  a  shell 
Through  which  a  child  had  thrust  a  finger- 
touch, 
And,  peal  on  dreadful  peal,  the  bell, 

The  miner's  'larum,   wrenched  the  quaking 
air; 

And  through  the  flaring  light  we  saw 
The  solid  forehead  of  the  eternal  hill 

Take  on  a  human  look  of  awe  ; 

As  if  it  were  a  living  thing,  that  spoke 
And  flung  some  protest  to  the  sky, 


STRONGER    THAN  DEATH.  29 

As  if  it  were  a  dying  thing  that  saw, 
But  could  not  tell,  a  mystery. 

The  bells  ran  ringing  by  us  all  that  night. 

The  bells  ceased  jangling  with  the  morn. 
About  the  blackened  works,  —  sunk,  tossed, 
and  rent, — 

We  gathered  in  the  foreign  dawn ; 

Women   and   men,  with   eyes    askance   and 
strange, 

Fearing,  we  knew  not  what,  to  see. 
Against  the  hollowed  jaws  of  the  torn  hill, 

Why  creep  the  miners  silently  ? 

From  man  to  man,  a  whisper  chills  :  "  See, 
see, 

The  sunken  shaft  of  Thirty-one  ! 
The  earth,  a  traitor  to  her  trust,  has  fled 

And  turned  the  dead  unto  the  sun. 

"  And  here  —  O  God  of  life  and  death  !   Thy 

work, 
Thine  only,  this  !  "     With  foreheads  bare, 


3O  STRONGER   THAN  DEATH. 

We  knelt,  and  drew  him,  young  and  beauti- 

ful, 
Thirty  years  dead,  into  the  air. 

Thus  had  he  perished  ;  buried  from  the  day  ; 

By  the  swift  poison  caught  and  slain ; 
By  the  kind  poison  unmarred,  rendered  fair 

Back  to  the  upper  earth  again  — 

The  warm  and  breathing  earth  that  knew 
him  not ; 

And  men  and  women  wept  to  see  — 
For  kindred  had  he  none  among  us  all  — 

How  lonely  even  the  dead  may  be. 

We  wept,  I  say  ;  we  wept  who  knew  him  not ; 

But  sharp,  a  tearless  woman  sprang 
From  out  the  crowd  (that  quavering  voice  I 
knew), 

And  terrible  her  cry  outrang : 

"  I  pass,  I  pass  ye  all !     Make  way  !     Stand 

back! 
Mine  is  the  place  ye  yield,"  she  said. 


STRONGER    THAN  DEATH.  31 

"  He  was    my   lover   once  —  my   own,   my 

own; 
Oh,  he  was  mine,  and  he  is  dead  !  " 

Women  and  men,  we  gave  her  royal  way  ; 

Proud  as  young  joy  the  smile  she  had. 
We  knew  her  for  a  neighbor  in  the  Town, 

Unmated,  solitary,  sad. 

Youth,  hope,  and  love,  we  gave  her  silent 
way, 

Calm  as  a  sigh  she  swept  us  all ; 
Then  swiftly,  as  a  word  leans  to  a  thought, 

We  saw  her  lean  to  him,  and  fall 

Upon  the  happy  body  of  the  dead  — 
An  aged  woman,  poor  and  gray. 

Bright  as  the  day,  immortal  as  young  Love, 
And  glorious  as  life,  he  lay. 

Her  shrunken  hands  caressed  his  rounded 

cheek, 
Her  white  locks  on  his  golden  hair 


32  STRONGER   THAN  DEATH. 

Fell  sadly.     "O  love  ! "  she  cried  with  shriv 
eled  lips, 
"  O  love,  my  love,  my  own,  my  fair  ! 

"  See,  I  am  old,  and  all  my  heart  is  gray. 

They  say  the  dead  are  aye  forgot  — 
There,  there,  my  sweet !     I  whisper,  leaning 
low, 

That  all  these  women  hear  it  not. 

"  Deep  in  the  darkness  there,  didst  think  on 

me? 

High  in  the  heavens,  have  ye  been  true  ? 
Since  I  was  young,  and  since  you  called  me 

fair, 
I  never  loved  a  man  but  you. 

And  here,  my  boy,  you  lie,  so  safe,  so  still "  — 
But  there  she  hushed ;  and  in  the  dim, 

Cool  morning,  timid  as  a  bride,  but  calm 
As  a  glad  mother,  gathered  him 

Unto  her  heart.     And  all  the  people  then, 
Women  and  men,  and  children  too, 


STRONGER   THAN  DEATH.  33 

Crept  back,  and  bads;  and  back,  and  on, 
Still  as  the  morning  shadows  do. 

And  left  them  in  the  lifting  dawn — they  two , 
On  her  sad  breast,  his  shining  bead 

Stirred  softly,  as  were  be  tbe  living  one, 
And  she  had  been  the  moveless  dead 

And  yet  we  crept  on,  back,  and  back,  and  OIL 
The  distance  widened  like  tbe  sky, 

Between  our  little  restlessness, 
And  Love  so  godlike  that  it  could  not  die. 

3 


II. 


VITTORIA. 

WISE  was  the  word  the  wise  man  spake,  who 

said, 
"Angelo  was  the  only  man  to  whom  God 

gave 
Four  souls," --the  soul  of  sculpture  and  of 

song, 

Of  architecture  and  of  art ;  these  all. 
For  so  God  loved  him,  as  if  he  were 
His   only   child,   and   grouped   about   those 

brows 

Ideals  of  Himself  —  not  angels  mild 
As  those  that  flit  and  beckon  other  lives, 
But  cherubim  and  seraphim  ;  tall,  strong, 
Unsleeping,  terrible  ;  with  wings  across 
Their  mighty  feet ;  and  eyes  —  if  we  would 

look 

Upon  their  blazing  eyes,  these  too  are  hid  — 
(37) 


38  VITTORIA. 

Some  angels  are  all  wings  !    Oh,  shine  and 

fly! 
Were    ye  not   angels,   ye   would   strike   us 

blind. 

And  yet  they  did  not,  could  not  dazzle  her  — 
That  one  sweet  woman  unto  whom  he  bent 
As  pliant  as  the  quarried  marble  turned 
To  life  immortal  in  his  own  great  hand. 
Steadfast,  Vittoria  looked  on  Angelo. 
She  lifted  lonely  eyes.     The  years  trod  slow. 
Fourfold   the   reverence  which   he   gave  to 

her, 

Fourfold  the  awful  tenderness,  fourfold 
The  loyalty,  the  trust.     And  oh,  fourfold 
The    comfort,    beyond    all   power   of    com 
forting, 

Whereby  a  lesser  man  may  heal  the  hurt 
Of  widowhood  ! 

Pescara  had  one  soul  — 
A  little  one  ;  and  it  was  stained.     And  he  — 
It  too,  perhaps  (God  knows !)  —  was  dead. 
The  dead  are  God's. 


VITTORIA.  39 

Vittoria  had  one  heart. 
The  woman  gave  it,  and  the  woman  gives 
Once.     Angelo  was  too  late.     And  one  who 

dared 
To  shed  a  tear  for  him,  has  dropped  it  here. 


NEW  NEIGHBORS. 

WITHIN  the  window's  scant  recess, 
Behind  a  pink  geranium  flower, 

She  sits  and  sews,  and  sews  and  sits, 
From  patient  hour  to  patient  hour. 

As  woman-like  as  marble  is, 

Or  as  a  lovely  death  might  be  — 

A  marble  death  condemned  to  make 
A  feint  at  life  perpetually. 

Wondering,  I  watch  to  pity  her ; 

Wandering,  I  go  my  restless  ways ; 
Content,  I  think  the  untamed  thoughts 

Of  free  and  solitary  days, 

Until  the  mournful  dusk  begins 
To  drop  upon  the  quiet  street, 

Until,  upon  the  pavement  far, 
There  falls  the  sound  of  coming  feet 
(40) 


NEW  NEIGHBORS.  41 

A  happy,  hastening,  ardent  sound, 
Tender  as  kisses  on  the  air  — 

Quick,  as  if  touched  by  unseen  lips 
Blushes  the  little  statue  there ; 

And  woman-like  as  young  life  is, 
And  woman-like  as  joy  may  be, 

Tender  with  color,  lithe  with  love, 
She  starts,  transfigured  gloriously. 

Superb  in  one  transcendent  glance  — 
Her  eyes,  I  see,  are  burning  black  — 

My  little  neighbor,  smiling,  turns, 
And  throws  my  unasked  pity  back. 

I  wonder,  is  it  worth  the  while, 

To  sit  and  sew  from  hour  to  hour  — 

To  sit  and  sew  with  eyes  of  black, 
Behind  a  pink  geranium  flower  ? 


BY  THE  HEARTH. 

You  come  too  late  ; 

'Tis  far  on  in  November. 

The  wind  strikes  bleak 

Upon  the  cheek 

That  careth  rather  to  keep  warm, 

(And  where  's  the  harm  ?) 

Than  to  abate 

One  jot  of  its  calm  color  for  your  sake. 

Watch  !  See  !  I  stir  the  ember 

Upon  my  lonely  hearth  and  bid  the  fire  wake. 

And  think  you  that  it  will  ? 
'T  is  burned,  I  say,  to  ashes. 
It  smoulders  cold 
As  grave-yard  mould. 
I  wish  indeed  you  would  not  blow 
Upon  it  so ! 
The  dead  to  kill. 

I  say,  the  ghosts  of  fires  will  never  stir, 
(42) 


BY  THE  HEARTH.  43 

Nor  woman  lift  the  lashes 
Of  eyes  wept  dim,  howe'er  yours  shine  for 
love  of  her ! 

Ah,  sweet  surprise  ! 

did  not  think  such  shining 
Upon  the  gloom 
Of  this  cold  room 

Could  fall.     Your  even,  strong,  calm  breath 
Calls  life  from  death. 
The  warm  light  lies 

At  your  triumphant  feet,  faint  with  desire 
To  reach  you.      See  !    The  lining 
Of  violet  and  of  silver  in  that  sheath  of  fire  ! 

If  you  would  care  — 
Although  it  is  November  — 
I  will  not  say 
A  bitter  nay 

To  such  a  gift  for  building  fires. 
And  though  it  tires 
Me  to  think  of  it  —  I  '11  own  to  you 
(If  you  can  stir  the  ember) 
It  may  be  found  at  last,  just  warm  enough 
for  two ! 


TOLD  IN  CONFIDENCE. 

Vow  you  '11  never,  never  tell  him ! 
Freezing  stars  now  glittering  farthest,  fair 
est  on  the  winter  sky  ; 
If  he  woo  me, 
Not  your  coldest,  cruel  ray 
Or  can  or  may 
Be  found  more  chill  and  still  to  him  than  I. 

Swear  you  '11  never,  never  tell  him  ! 
Warm,  red  roses  lifting  your  shy  faces  to  the 

summer  dew  ; 
If  he  win  me, 

Blush  your  sweetest  in  his  sight 
For  his  delight, 
But  I  can  be  as  warm  and  sweet  as  you. 

(44) 


WHAT  THE  VIOLINS  SAID. 

SONG. 

"  We  're  all  for  love,''  the  violins  said.  —  SIDNEY  L.VNIER, 

Do  I  love  you  ?     Do  I  love  you  ? 
Ask  the  heavens  that  bend  above  you 
To  find  language  and  to  prove  you 

If  they  love  the  living  sun. 
Ask  the  burning,  blinded  meadows 
If  they  love  the  falling  shadows, 
If  they  hold  the  happy  shadows 

When  the  fervid  day  is  done. 

Ask  the  blue-bells  and  the  daisies, 
Lost  amid  the  hot  field-mazes, 
Lifting  up  their  thirsty  faces, 

If  they  love  the  summer  rains. 
Ask  the  linnets  and  the  plovers, 
In  the  nest-life  made  for  lovers, 
Ask  the  bees  and  ask  the  clovers  — 

Will  they  tell  you  for  your  pains  ? 
(45) 


46  WHAT  THE   VIOLINS  SAID. 

Do  I,  Darling,  do  I  love  you  ? 
What,  I  pray,  can  that  behoove  you  ? 
How  in  Love's  name  can  I  move  you  ? 

When  for  Love's  sake  I  am  dumb ! 
If  I  told  you,  if  I  told  you, 
Would  that  keep  you,  would  that  hold  you, 
Here  at  last  where  I  enfold  you  ? 

If  it  would  —  Hush  !  Darling,  come  ! 


WON. 

OH,  when  I  would  have  loved  you,  Dear, 
The  sun  of  winter  hung  more  near  ; 
Yet  not  so  sweet,  so  sweet,  so  sweet, 
The  wild-rose  reddening  at  my  feet 

Your  lips  had  learned  a  golden  word, 
You  sang  a  song  that  all  men  heard, 
Oh,  love  is  fleet,  the  strain  is  long. 
Who  stays  the  singer  from  her  song  ? 

Across  my  path  the  red  leaves  whirled. 
Dared  I  to  kneel  with  all  the  world  ? 
How  came  I,  then,  to  clasp  you,  Sweet, 
And  find  a  woman  at  my  feet  ? 
(47) 


SPENT. 

HEART  of  iron,  smile  of  ice, 

Oh  !  the  rock. 
See  him  stand  as  dumb  as  death. 

If  you  could, 

Would  you  care  to  stir  or  shock 
Him,  think  you,  by  a  blow  or  breath, 

From  his  mood  ? 

Arms  of  velvet,  lips  of  love, 

Oh  !  the  wave. 
See  her  creeping  to  his  feet 

Trustfully. 

None  shall  know  the  sign  he  gave. 
Death  since  then,  were  all  too  sweet. 

Let  her  die. 

Lift  thine  eyes  upon  the  sea, 
Soul  of  stone. 
(48) 


SPENT.  49 

Rather  (wouldst  thou  breathe  or  move  ?) 

I  would  be 

A  warm  wave,  faithful,  wasted,  thrown, 
Spent  and  rent  and  dead  with  love, 

Than  be  thee. 
4 


PARTED. 

OH,  never  a  word  he  answered, 
And  never  a  word  spake  she  ! 

They  turned  their  faces  each  from  each, 
And  looked  upon  the  sea. 

The  hands  that  cannot  clasp  for  life, 

Must  quickly  severed  be. 
The  love  that  is  not  large  enough 

To  live  eternally, 

In  true  love's  name,  for  fair  love's  fame, 

Must  die  before  its  bloom  ; 
For  it,  in  all  God's  earth  or  heaven, 

There  is  no  garden-room. 

Though  all  the  wine  of  life  be  lost, 
Try  well  the  red  grape's  hue. 

Holy  the  soul  that  cannot  taste 
The  false  love  for  the  true. 
(50) 


PARTED.  5! 

And  blessed  aye  the  fainting  heart 

For  such  a  thirst  shall  be  — 
Yet  never  a  word  they  spoke,  and  looked 

Upon  the  bitter  sea. 


AN  APRIL  GUST. 

IT  shall  be  as  it  hath  been. 
All  the  world  is  glad  and  green  — 
Hush  !     Ah,  hush  !     There  cannot  be 
April  now  for  you  and  me. 

Put  your  finger  on  the  lips 
Of  your  soul  ;  the  wild  rain  drips  ; 
The  wind  goes  diving  down  the  sea  ; 
Tell  the  wind,  but  tell  not  me. 

Yet  if  I  had  aught  to  tell, 
High  as  heaven,  or  deep  as  hell, 
Bent  the  fates  awry  or  fit, 
I  would  find  a  word  for  it. 

Oh,  words  that  neither  sea  nor  land 
Can  lift  their  ears  to  understand  ! 
Wild  words,  as  dumb  as  death  or  fear, 
I  dare  to  die,  but  not  to  hear  ! 
(52) 


THE  ANSWER. 

"  That  we  together  may  sail, 
Just  as  we  used  to  do." 

CARLETON'S  BALLADS. 

AND  what  if  I  should  be  kind  ? 

And  what  if  you  should  be  true  ? 
The  old  love  could  never  go  on, 

Just  as  it  used  to  do. 

The  wan,  white  hands  of  the  waves 
That  smote  us  swift  apart, 

Will  never  enclasp  again, 
And  draw  us  heart  to  heart. 

The  cold,  far  feet  of  the  tides 
That  trod  between  us  two, 

Can  never  retrace  their  steps, 
And  fall  where  they  used  to  do. 
(53) 


54  THE  ANSWER. 

Oh,  well  the  ships  must  remember, 
That  go  down  to  the  awful  sea, 

No  keel  that  chisels  the  current 
Can  cut  where  it  used  to  be. 

Not  a  throb  of  the  gloom  or  the  glory 
That  stirs  in  the  sun  or  the  rain, 

Will  ever  be  that  gloom  or  glory 
That  dazzled  or  darkened  —  again. 

Not  a  wave  that  stretches  its  arms, 

And  yearns  to  the  breast  of  the  shore, 

Is  ever  the  wave  that  came  trusting, 
And  yearning,  and  loving,  before. 

The  hope  that  is  high  as  the  heavens, 
The  joy  that  is  keen  as  pain, 

The  faith  that  is  free  as  the  morning, 
Can  die  —  but  can  live  not  again. 

And  though  I  should  step  beside  you, 
And  hand  should  reach  unto  hand, 

We  should  walk  mutely  —  stifled  — 
Ghosts  in  a  breathless  land. 


THE  ANSWER.  55 

And  what  if  I  should  be  kind  ? 

And  though  you  should  be  true  ? 
The  old  love  could  never,  never 

Love  on  as  it  used  to  do. 


THORNS. 

As  we  pass  by  the  roses, 
Into  your  finger-tip 
Bruise  you  the  thorn. 
Quick  at  the  prick  you  start, 
Crying,  "  Alas,  the  smart ! 
Farewell,  my  pleasant  friend, 
Wisely  our  way  we  wend 
Out  of  the  reach  of  roses." 

Oh,  we  pass  by  the  roses  ! 
Where  does  the  red  drop  drip  ? 
Where  is  the  thorn  ? 
What  though  'tis  hid  and  pressed 
Piercing  into  my  breast  ? 
Scathless,  I  stretch  my  hand ; 
Strong  as  their  roots  I  stand, 
And  dare  to  trust  the  roses. 
(56) 


THE  INDIAN  GIRL. 

A   PICTURE    BY    WALTER   SHIRLAW. 

SHE  standeth  silent  as  a  thought 
Too  sacred  to  be  uttered ;  all 
Her  face  unfurling  like  a  flower 
That  at  a  breath  too  near  will  shut. 
Her  life  a  little  golden  clock 
Whose  shining  hands,  arrested,  stay 
Forever  at  the  hour  of  Love. 

She   doubts,    she   dares,    she   dreams  —  of 

what  ? 

I  ask  ;  she,  shrinking,  answers  not, 
She  swims  before  me,  dim,  a  cup 
Of  waste,  untasted  tenderness. 
I  drink,  I  dread,  until  I  seem 
(Myself  unto  myself)  to  be 
He  whom  she  chose,   and  charmed  —  and 

missed, 

On  some  faint  Asiatic  day 
Of  languorous  summer,  ages  since. 
(57) 


SEALED. 

"  SHALL  I  pour  you  the  wine,"  she  said, 
"  The  wine  that  is  rare  and  red  ? 

Sweeter  the  cup  for  the  drop." — 
"  But  why  do  you  shrink  and  stop  ? " 

"  The  seal  of  the  wine 

Has  a  sacred  sign  ; 
I  am  afraid,"  she  said. 

"  I  love  and  revere 

You  more  for  your  fear, 
Than  I  do  for  your  wine,"  he  said. 
(58) 


GUINEVERE. 

OF  Guinevere  from  Arthur  separate, 

And  separate  from  Launcelot  and  the  world, 

And  shielded  in  the  convent  with  her  sin, 

As  one  draws  fast  a  veil  upon  a  face  "• 

That  's  marred,  but  only  holds  the  scar  more 

close 

Against  the  burning  brain  —  I  read  to-day 
This  legend  ;  and  if  other  yet  than  I 
Have  read,   or  said,  how  know  I  ?   for  the 

text 

Was  written  in  the  story  we  have  learned, 
Between  the  ashen  lines,  invisible, 
In  hieroglyphs  that  blazed  and  leaped  like 

light 

Unto  the  eyes.     A  thousand  times  we  read  ; 
A  thousand  turn  the  page  and  understand, 
And  think  we  know  the  record  of  a  life, 
When  lo  !  if  we  will  open  once  again 
The  awful  volume,  hid,  mysterious, 
(59) 


60  GUINEVERE. 

Intent,  there  lies  the  unseen  alphabet  — 
Re-reads  the  tale  from  breath  to  death,  and 

spells 
A  living  language  that  we  never  knew. 

This  that  I  read  was  one  short  song  of  hers, 
A  fragment,  I  interpret,  or  a  lost 
Faint  prelude  to  another  —  missing  too. 
She   sang  it    (says   the   text)    one   summer 

night, 

After  the  vespers,  when  the  Abbess  passed 
And  blessed  her ;  when  the  nuns  were  gone, 

and  when 

She,  kneeling  in  her  drowsy  cell,  had  said 
Her    prayers    (poor    soul ! ),    her    sorrowful 

prayers,  in  which 

She  had  besought  the  Lord,  for  His  dear  sake, 
And  love  and  pity  of  His  Only  Son, 
To  wash  her  of  her  stain,  and  make  her  fit 
On  summer  nights,  behind  the  convent  bars 
And    on   stone-floors,  with   bruised  lips,    to 

pray 

Away  all  vision  but  repentance  from 
Her  soul. 


GUINEVERE,  6 1 

When,  kneeling  as  she  was,  her  limbs 
Refused  to  bear  her,  and  she  fell  afaint 
From  weariness  and  striving  to  become 
A  holy  woman,  all  her  splendid  length 
Upon  the  ground,  and  groveled  there,  aghast 
That  buried  nature  was  not  dead  in  her, 
But  lived,   a  rebel   through   her  fair,   fierce 

youth  ; 
Aghast   to   find   that    clasped   hands  would 

clench  ; 

Aghast  to  feel  that  praying  lips  refused 
Like  saints  to  murmur  on,  but  shrank 
And    quivered    dumb.     "  Alas !     I     cannot 

pray!" 

Cried  Guinevere.     "  I  cannot  pray  !  I  will 
Not  lie  !     God  is  an  honest  God,  and  I 
Will  be  an  honest  sinner  to  his  face. 
Will  it  be  wicked  if  I  sing  ?     Oh  !  let 
Me  sing  a  little,  of  I  know  not  what ; 
Let  me  just  sing,  I  know  not  why.     For  lips 
Grow  stiff  with  praying  all  the  night. 
Let  me  believe  that  I  am  happy,  too. 
A  blessed  blessed  woman,  who  is  fit 
To  sing  because  she  did  not  sin  ;  or  else 


62  GUINEVERE. 

That  God  forgot  it  for  a  little  while 
And  does  not  mind  me  very  much. 

Dear  Lord," 

(Said  Guinevere),  "  wilt  thou  not  listen  while 
I  sing,  as  well  as  while  I  pray  ?     I  shall 
Feel  safer  so.     For  I  have  naught  to  say 
God  should  not  hear.     The  song  comes  as 

the  prayer 
Doth  come.     Thou  listenest.     I  sing."  .  .  . 

Purple  the  night,  and  high  were  the  skies, 

and  higher 
The  eyes  that  leaned  like  the  stars  of  my 

soul,  to  me. 

Whom    lo'ueth   the  Queen  ?     Him    who  hath 
right  to  crown  Jier. 

Who  but  the  King  is  he  f 

Sultry  the  day,  and  gold  was  the  hair,  and 

golden 
The  mist  that  blinded  my  soul  away  from 

me. 

Dethroned  for  a  dream,  for  a  gleam,  for  a 
glance,  for  a  color. 

How  could  the  crowned  be  ? 


GUINEVERE.  63 

Life  goeth  by  like  a  deed,  nor  returneth  for 
ever. 

Death  cometh  on,  fleet-footed  as  pity  should  be. 

H us/i  !      When  she  waketh  at  last  and  looketh 
about  her, 

Whom  will  a  woman  see  ? 

Thus  in  her  cell, 

Deep    in  the   summer   night,   sang   Guine 
vere — 

A  little,  broken,  blind,  sweet  melody  — 
And  then  she  kneeled  upon  the  convent  floor, 
And,   peaceful,   finished  all  her  prayer  and 

slept ; 

For  she  had  naught  to  say  God  might  not 
hear. 


SUNG  TO  A   FRIEND. 

THE  tide  is  rising,  rising 
Out  of  the  infinite  sea  ; 
From  ripple,  to  wave,  to  billow, 
Past  beryl  and  gold  and  crimson, 
A  prism  of  perfect  splendor ; 
What  shall  the  white  surf  be  ? 

The  sacred  tide  is  rising, 

Rising  for  you  and  me. 
Defiant  across  the  breaker, 
Wave  unto  wave  must  answer, 
The  sea  to  the  shore  will  follow  ; 

When  shall  the  great  flood  be  ? 

The  tide  must  turn  falling,  falling 

Back  to  the  awful  sea. 
Thus  far  shalt  thou  go,  no  farther. 
The  color  sinks  to  the  shadow, 
(64) 


SUNG    TO  A   FRIEND.  65 

The  paean  sobs  into  silence, 
Where  shall  the  ebb-line  be  ? 

By  the  weeds  left  blazing,  beating 
Like  heart-throbs  of  the  sea, 

By  the  law  of  the  land  and  the  ocean, 

By  the  Hand  that  holdeth  the  torrent, 

I  summon  the  tide  eternal 
To  flow  for  you  and  me  ! 
5 


INCOMPLETION. 

PERHAPS  the  bud  lost  from  the  loaded  tree 
The  sweetest  blossom  of  the  May  would  be  ; 

Or  wildest  song   that   summer   could   have 

heard 
Is  dumb  within  the  throat  of  the  dead  bird. 

The  perfect  statue  that  all  men  have  sought 
May   in    some   crippled    hand   be   hid,    un- 
wrought. 

Which  of  our  dearest  dead  betook  his  flight 
Into  the  rose-red  star  that  fell  last  night  ? 

The  words  forever  by  thy  lips  unsaid 
Had  been  the  crown  of  life  upon  thy  head. 

The  splendid  sun  of  all  my  days  might  be 
The  love  that  I  shall  never  give  to  thee. 
(66) 


RAPE'S   CHASM. 

CAPE   ANN,    SEPTEMBER   SURF.    1882. 

WHITE   fire   upon   the  gray-green   waste  of 

waves, 

The  low  light  of  the  breaker  flares.    Ah,  see ! 
Outbursting  on  a  sky  of  steel  and  ice, 
The  baffled  sun  stabs  wildly  at  the  gale. 
The  water  rises  like  a  god  aglow, 
Who  all  too  long  hath  slept,  and  dreamed 

too  sure, 

And  finds  his  goddess  fled  his  empty  arms. 
Silent,  the  mighty  cliff  receives  at  last 
That  rage  of  elemental  tenderness, 
The  old,  omnipotent  caress  she  knows. 
Yet  once  the  solid  earth  did  melt  for  her 
And,  pitying,  made  retreat  before  her  flight ; 
Would  she  have  hidden  her  forever  there  ? 
Or  did  she,  wavering,  linger  long  enough 
To   let   the   accustomed   torrent   chase   her 

down  ? 

(67) 


68  RAPE'S  CHASM. 

Over  the  neck  of  the  gorge, 

I  cling.     Lean  desperately  ! 

He  who  feared  a  chasm's  edge 

Were  never  the  one  to  see 

The  torment  and  the  triumph  hid 

Where  the  deep  surges  be. 

I  pierce  the  gulf  ;  I  sweep  the  coast 

Where  wide  the  tide  swings  free  ; 

I  search  as  never  soul  sought  before. 

There  is  not  patience  enough  in  all  the  shore, 

There  is  not  passion  enough  in  all  the  sea, 

To  tell  my  love  for  thee. 


GALATEA. 

A  MOMENT'S  grace,  Pygmalion  !    Let  me  be 
A  breath's  space  longer  on  this  hither  hand 
Of  fate  too  sweet,  too  sad,  too  mad  to  meet. 
Whether  to  be  thy  statue  or  thy  bride  — 
An  instant  spare  me  !    Terrible  the  choice, 
As  no  man  knoweth,  being  only  man ; 
Nor  any,  saving  her  who  hath  been  stone 
And   loved  her   sculptor.     Shall  I  dare  ex 
change 

Veins  of  the  quarry  for  the  throbbing  pulse  ? 
Insensate  calm  for  a  sure-aching  heart  ? 
Repose  eternal  for  a  woman's  lot  ? 
Forego  God's  quiet  for  the  love  of  man  ? 
To  float  on  his  uncertain  tenderness, 
A  wave  tossed  up  the  shore  of  his  desire, 
To  ebb  and  flow  whene'er  it  pleaseth  him  ; 
Remembered  at  his  leisure,  and  forgot, 
Worshiped  and  worried,  clasped  and  dropped 
at  mood, 

(69) 


70  GALATEA, 

Or  soothed  or  gashed  at  mercy  of  his  will, 
Now  Paradise  my  portion,  and  now  Hell  ; 
And  every  single,  several  nerve  that  beats 
In  soul  or  body,  like  some  rare  vase,  thrust 
In  fire  at  first,  and  then  in  frost,  until 
The  fine,  protesting  fibre  snaps  ? 

Oh,  who 

\  Foreknowing,  ever  chose  a  fate  like  this  ? 
)What  woman  out  of  all  the  breathing  world 
(Would  be  a  woman,  could  her  heart  select, 
|0r  love  her  lover,  could  her  life  prevent  ? 
Then  let  me  be  that  only,  only  one ; 
Thus  let  me  make  that  sacrifice  supreme, 
No  other  ever  made,  or  can,  or  shall. 
Behold,  the  future  shall  stand  still  to  ask, 
What  man  was  worth  a  price  so  isolate  ? 
And  rate  thee  at  its  value  for  all  time. 

For  I  am  driven  by  an  awful  Law. 
See !  while  I  hesitate,  it  mouldeth  me, 
And  carves  me  like  a  chisel  at  my  heart. 
'T  is  stronger  than  the  woman  or  the  man  ; 
'T  is  greater  than  all  torment  or  delight ; 


GALATEA.  /I 

'T  is  mightier  than  the  marble  or  the  flesh. 
Obedient  be  the  sculptor  and  the  stone ! 
Thine  am  I,  thine  at  all  the  cost  of  all 
The  pangs  that  woman  ever  bore  for  man  ; 
Thine  I  elect  to  be,  denying  them ; 
Thine  I  elect  to  be,  defying  them ; 
Thine,  thine  I  dare  to  be,  In  scorn  of  them ; 
And  being  thine  forever,  bless  I  them ! 

Pygmalion !  Take  me  from  my  pedestal, 
And  set  me  lower  —  lower,  Love  !  —  that  I 
May  be  a  woman,  and  look  up  to  thee  ; 
And  looking,  longing,  loving,  give  and  take 
The  human  kisses  worth  the  worst  that  thou 
By  thine  own  nature  shalt  inflict  on  me. 


PART  OF  THE  PRICE. 

TAKE  back,  my  friend,  the  gifts  once  given. 
No  fairer  find  I  this  side  Heaven 
With  which  to  bless  thee,  than  thine  own 
Resource  of  blessing.     Mine  alone 
To  render  what  is  mine  to  lose. 
No  niggard  am  I  with  it.     Choose ! 
Lavish,  I  keep  not  any  part 
Of  that  great  price  within  my  heart. 
Wilt  thou  the  quiet  comfort  have  ? 
Thine  be  it,  daily,  to  the  grave ! 
The  courage,  shining  down  from  one 
Whose  answering  eyes  put  out  the  sun  ? 
The  tenderness  that  touched  the  nerve 
Like  music  ?     Oh,  I  bid  these  serve 
Thee,  soothe  thee,  watchful  of  thy  need 
While  mine  is  unattended  ;  feed 
Thy  heart  while  mine  goes  famished.     Glad, 
I  give  the  dearest  thing  I  had. 
Impoverished,  can  I  find  or  spare 
(72) 


PART  OF  THE  PRICE.  73 

Aught  else  to  thee  of  rich  or  rare  ? 

Sweet  thoughts   that   through   the   soul  do 

sing, 

And  deeds  like  loving  hands  that  cling, 
And  loyal  faith  —  a  sentry  —  nigh, 
And  prayers  all  rose-clouds  hovering  high  ? 
Nay,  nay  ;  I  keep  not  any.     Hold 
The  wealth  I  leave  with  fingers  cold 
And  trembling  in  thine  own.     One  thing 
Alone  I  do  deny  to  bring 
And  give  again  to  thee.     Not  now, 
Nor  ever,  Dear,  shalt  thou  learn  how 
To  wrest  it  from  me.     Test  thy  strength  ! 
By  the  world's  measures,  height  or  length  — 
Too  weak  art  thou,  too  weak  to  gain, 
By  sleight  of  tenderness  or  snatch  of  pain 
—  At  thine  own  most  or  least  —  to  take  from 

me 
Mine  own  ideal  lost  —  and  saved — of  thee. 


EURYDICE. 

Listening. 

A  PICTURE   BY   BURNE  JONES. 
I. 

As  sentient  as  a  wedding-bell, 
The  vibrant  air  throbs  calling  her 
Whose  eager  body,  earwise  curved, 
Leans  listening  at  the  heart  of  hell. 
She  is  one  nerve  of  hearing,  strained 
To  love  and  suffer,  hope  and  fear  — 
Thus,  hearkening  for  her  Love,  she  waits, 
Whom  no  man's  daring  heart  has  gained. 

II. 

Oh,  to  be  sound  to  such  an  ear ! 
Song,  carol,  vesper,  comfort  near, 
Sweet  words,  at  sweetest,  whispered  low, 
Or  dearer  silence,  happiest  so. 

(74) 


EUR  YD  ICE.  75 

By  little  languages  of  love 
Her  finer  audience  to  prove ; 
A  tenderness  untried,  to  fit 
To  soul  and  sense  so  exquisite ; 
The  blessed  Orpheus  to  be 
At  last,  to  such  Eurydice  ! 

in. 

I  listened  in  hell  !     I  listened  in  hell ! 
Down  in  the  dark  I  heard  your  soul 
Singing  mine  out  to  the  holy  sun. 
Deep  in  the  dark  I  heard  your  feet 
Ringing  the  way  of  Love  in  hell. 
Into  the  flame  you  strode  and  stood. 
Out  of  the  flame  you  bore  me  well, 
As  I  listened  in  hell. 

IV. 

I  listen  in  hell !  I  listen  in  hell ! 

Who    trod    the    fire  ?     Where     was    the 

scorch  ? 
Clutched,  clasped,  and  saved,  what  a  tale 

was  to  tell 
Heaven  come  down  to  hell! 


76  EURYDICE. 

Oh,  like  a  spirit  you  strove  for  my  sake  ! 
Oh,  like  a  man  you  looked  back  for  your 

own ! 

Back,  though  you  loved  me  heavenly  well, 
Back,  though  you  lost  me.     The  gods  did 

decree, 
And  I  listen  in  hell. 


ELAINE   AND    ELAINE. 

i. 

DEAD,  she  drifted  to  his  feet. 
Tell  us,  Love,  is  Death  so  sweet  ? 

Oh  !  the  river  floweth  deep. 
Fathoms  deeper  is  her  sleep. 

Oh  !  the  current  driveth  strong. 
Wilder  tides  drive  souls  along. 

Drifting,  though  he  loved  her  not, 
To  the  heart  of  Launcelot, 

Let  her  pass  ;  it  is  her  place. 
Death  hath  given  her  this  grace. 

Let  her  pass  ;  she  resteth  well. 
What  her  dreams  are,  who  can  tell  ? 
(77) 


78  ELAINE  AND  ELAINE. 

Mute  the  steersman  ;  why,  if  he 
Speaketh  not  a  word,  should  we  ? 
• 

n. 

Dead,  she  drifteth  to  his  feet. 
Close,  her  eyes  keep  secrets  sweet. 

Living,  he  had  loved  her  well. 
High  as  Heaven  and  deep  as  Hell. 

Yet  that  voyage  she  stayeth  not. 
Wait  you  for  her,  Launcelot  ? 

Oh  !  the  river  floweth  fast. 
Who  is  justified  at  last  ? 

Locked  her  lips  are.     Hush  !     If  she 
Sayeth  nothing,  how  should  we  ? 


III. 


THE   POET   AND   THE   POEM. 

UPON  the  city  called  the  Friends' 

The  light  of  waking  spring 
Fell  vivid  as  the  shadow  thrown 

Far  from  the  gleaming  wing 
Of  a  great  golden  bird,  that  fled 

Before  us  loitering. 

In  hours  before  the  spring,  how  light 

The  pulse  of  heaviest  feet ! 
And  quick  the  slowest  hopes  to  stir 

To  measures  fine  and  fleet. 
And  warm  will  grow  the  bitterest  heart 

To  shelter  fancies  sweet. 

Securely  looks  the  city  down 

On  her  own  fret  and  toil  ; 
She  hides  a  heart  of  perfect  peace 

Behind  her  veins'  turmoil  — 
6  (81) 


82  THE  POET  AND   THE  POEM. 

A  breathing-space  removed  apart 
From  out  their  stir  and  soil. 


Our  reverent  feet  that  golden  day 

Stood  in  a  quiet  place, 
That  held  repressed  —  I  know  not  what 

Of  such  a  poignant  grace 
As  falls,  if  dumb  with  life  untold, 

Upon  a  human  face. 

To  fashion  silence  into  words 

The  softest,  teach  me  how  ! 
I  know  the  place  is  Silence  caught 

A-dreaming,  then  and  now. 
I  only  know  't  was  blue  above, 

And  it  was  green  below. 

And  where  the  deepening  sunshine  found 

And  held  a  holy  mood, 
Lowly  and  old,  of  outline  quaint, 

In  mingled  brick  and  wood, 
Clasped  in  the  arms  of  ivy  vines 

A  nestling  cottage  stood  : 


THE  POET  AND  THE  POEM.      83 

A  thing  so  hidden  and  so  fair, 

So  pure  that  it  would  seem 
Hewn  out  of  nothing  earthlier 

Than  a  young  poet's  dream, 
Of  nothing  sadder  than  the  lights 

That  through  the  ivies  gleam. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said,  while  shrill  the  birds 
Sang  through  the  garden  space, 

To  her  who  guided  me  —  "  tell  me 
The  story  of  the  place." 

She  lifted,  in  her  Quaker  cap, 
A  peaceful,  puzzled  face, 

Surveyed  me  with  an  aged,  calm, 

And  unpoetic  eye  ; 
And  peacefully,  but  puzzled  half, 

Half  tolerant,  made  reply  : 
"The  people  come  to  see  that  house — 

Indeed,  I  know  not  why, 

"  Except  thee  know  the  poem  there  — 
'T  was  written  long  since,  yet 


84      THE  POET  AND  THE  POEM. 

His  name  who  wrote  it,  now  —  in  fact 

I  cannot  seem  to  get  — 
His  name  who  wrote  that  poetry 

I  always  do  forget. 

"Hers  was  Evangeline  ;  and  here 

In  sound  of  Christ  Church  bells 
She  found  her  lover  in  this  house, 

Or  so  I  Ve  heard  folks  tell. 
But  most  I  know  is,  that 's  her  name, 
And  his  was  Gabriel. 

"  I  'Ve  heard  she  found  him  dying,  in 
The  room  behind  that  door, 

(One  of  the  Friends'  old  almshouses, 
Perhaps  thee  Ve  heard  before  ;) 

Perhaps  thee  Ve  heard  about  her  all 
That  I  can  tell,  and  more. 

"  Thee  can  believe  she  found  him  here, 

If  thee  do  so  incline. 
Folks  have  their  fashions  in  belief  — 
That  may  be  one  of  thine. 


THE  POET  AND   THE  POEM.  85 

I  'm  sure  his  name  was  Gabriel, 

And  hers  Evangeline." 

She  turned  her  to  her  common  work 

And  unpoetic  ways, 
Nor  knew  the  rare,  sweet  note  she  struck 

Resounding  to  your  praise, 
O  Poet  of  our  common  nights, 

And  of  our  care-worn  days  ! 

Translator  of  our  golden  mood, 

And  of  our  leaden  hour  ! 
Immortal  thus  shall  poet  gauge 

The  horizon  of  his  power. 
Wear  in  your  crown  of  laurel  leaves, 

The  little  ivy  flower  ! 

And  happy  be  the  singer  called 

To  such  a  lofty  lot ! 
And  ever  blessed  be  the  heart 

Hid  in  the  simple  spot 
Where  Evangeline  was  loved  and  wept, 

And  Longfellow  forgot. 


86  THE  POET  AND    THE  POEM. 

O  striving  soul !  strive  quietly, 
Whate'er  thou  art  or  dost, 

Sweetest  the  strain,  when  in  the  song 
The  singer  has  been  lost ; 

Truest  the  work,  when  't  is  the  deed, 
Not  doer,  counts  for  most ! 

The  shadow  of  the  golden  wing 
Grew  deep  where'er  it  fell. 

The  heart  it  brooded  over  will 
Remember  long  and  well 

Full  many  a  subtle  thing,  too  sweet 
Or  else  too  sad  to  tell. 

Forever  fall  the  light  of  spring 

Fair  as  that  day  it  fell, 
Where  Evangeline,  led  by  your  voice, 

O  solemn  Christ  Church  bell ! 
For  lovers  of  all  springs,  all  climes, 

At  last  found  Gabriel. 


OVERTASKED. 

IT  was  a  weary  hour, 

I  looked  in  the  lily-bell. 
How  holy  is  the  flower  ! 
It  leaned  like  an  angel  against  the  light ; 
"  O  soul ! "  it  said,  sighing,   "  be  white,  be 
white ! " 

I  stretched  my  arms  for  rest, 

I  turned  to  the  evening  cloud  — 
A  vision  how  fair,  how  blest ! 
"  Low  heart,"  it  called,  softly,  "  arise  and  fly. 
It  were  yours  to  reach  levels  as  high  as  I." 

I  stooped  to  the  hoary  wave 

That  wept  on  the  darkening  shore. 
It  sobbed  to  me  :  "  Oh,  be  brave ! 
Whatever  you  do,  or  dare,  or  will, 
Like  me  to  go  striving,  unresting  still." 
(87) 


STRANDED. 

O  BUSY  ships  !  that  smile  in  sailing 

In  a  glory 

Like  a  dream, 
From  the  colors  of  the  harbor  to  the  colors 

of  the  sea. 
In  singing  words  or  in  bewailing, 

Tell  the  story 

As  you  gleam, 

Tell  the  story,  guess  the  language  of  my  idle 
hours  for  me. 

O  busy  waves  !  so  blest  in  bruising 
Your  white  faces 
On  the  shore. 
So  happy  to  be  wasted  with  the  purpose  of 

the  sea, 

Content  to  leave  with  it  the  choosing 
(88) 


STRANDED.  89 

Of  your  places 
Evermore, 

Whisper  but    the    far   sea-meaning   of    my 
stranded  life  for  me. 

Gray  the  sails  grow  in  departing 

Like  fleet  swallows 

To  the  South. 
Stern  the  tide  turns  in  its  parting, 

As  it  follows 

With  dumb  mouth. 

In  the  stillness  and  the  sternness  God  makes 
answer  unto  me. 


GLOUCESTER   HARBOR. 

ONE  shadow  glides  from  the  dumb  shore, 
And  one  from  every  silent  sail. 
One  cloud  the  averted  heavens  wear, 
A  soft  mask,  thin  and  frail. 

Oh,  silver  is  the  lessening  rain, 
And  yellow  was  the  weary  drouth. 
The  reef  her  warning  finger  puts 
Upon  the  harbor's  mouth. 

Her  thin,  wan  finger,  stiff  and  stark, 
She  holds  by  night,  she  holds  by  day. 
Ask,  if  you  will.     No  answer  makes 
The  sombre,  guarded  bay. 

The  fleet,  with  idle  canvas  hung, 
Like  a  brute  life,  sleeps  patiently. 
The  headlights  nod  across  the  cliff, 
The  fog  blows  out  to  sea. 
(90) 


GLOUCESTER  HARBOR.  9 1 

There  is  no  color  on  the  tide, 

No  color  on  the  helpless  sky ; 

Across  the  beach,  —  a  safe,  small  sound  — 

The  grass-hid  crickets  cry. 

And  through  the  dusk  I  hear  the  keels 
Of  home-bound  boats  grate  low  and  sweet 
O  happy  lights  !     O  watching  eyes  ! 
Leap  out  the  sound  to  greet. 

O  tender  arms  that  meet  and  clasp  ! 
Gather  and  cherish  while  ye  may. 
The  morrow  knoweth  God.     Ye  know 
Your  own  are  yours  to-day. 

Forever  from  the  Gloucester  winds 
The  cries  of  hungry  children  start. 
There  breaks  in  every  Gloucester  wave 
A  widowed  woman's  heart. 


THE  TERRIBLE   TEST. 

SEPARATE,  upon  the  folded  page 
Of  myth  or  marvel,  sad  or  glad, 

The  test  that  gave  the  Lord  to  thee, 
And  thee  to  us,  O  Galahad ! 

"  Found    pure     in     deed,    and     word,    and 
thought," 

The  creature  of  our  dream  and  guess, 
The  vision  of  the  brain  thou  art, 

The  eidolon  of  holiness. 

Man  with  the  power  of  the  God, 
Man  with  the  weaknesses  of  men, 

Whose  lips  the  Sangreal  leaned  to  feed, 
"  Whose  strength  was  the  strength  of  ten." 

We  read  —  and  smile  ;  no  man  thou  wast ; 
No  human  pulses  thine  could  be  ; 
(92) 


THE    TERRIBLE   TEST.  93 

With  downcast  eyes  we  read  —  and  sigh  ; 
So  terrible  is  purity  ! 

O  fairest  legend  of  the  years, 
With  folded  wings,  go,  silently  ! 

O  flower  of  knighthood,  yield  your  place 
To  One  who  comes  from  Galilee  ! 

To  wounded  feet  that  shrink  and  bleed, 
But  press  and  climb  the  narrow  way,  — 

The  same  old  way  our  own  must  step, 
Forever,  yesterday,  to-day. 

For  soul  can  be  what  soul  hath  been, 
And  feet  can  tread  where  feet  have  trod. 

Enough,  to  know  that  once  the  clay 
Hath  worn  the  features  of  the  God. 


MY  DREAMS  ARE   OF  THE  SEA. 

MY  dreams  are  of  the  Sea. 
All  night  the  living  waters  stepped 
Stately  and  steadily.     All  night  the  wind 
Conducted  them.    With  forehead  high,  a  rock, 
Glittering  with  joy,  stood  to  receive  the  shock 
Of  the  flood-tide.     I  saw  it  in  the  mind 
Of  sleep  and  silence.     When  I  woke,  I  wept. 

My  dreams  are  of  the  Sea. 
But  oh,  it  is  the  Sea  of  Glass ! 
I  met  that  other  tide  as  I  desired. 
Alone,  the  rock  and  I  leaned  to  the  wave,  — 
A  foolish  suicide,  that  scooped  its  grave 
Within  the  piteous  sand.     Now  I  am  tired. 
It  died  and  it  was  buried.     Let  me  pass. 
(94) 


SONG. 

THE  firelight  listens  on  the  floor 

To  hear  the  wild  winds  blow. 
Within,  the  bursting  roses  burn, 

Without,  there  slides  the  snow. 

Across  the  flower  I  see  the  flake 

Pass  mirrored,  mystic,  slow. 
Oh,   blooms    and    storms   must    blush   and 
freeze, 

While  seasons  come  and  go ! 

I  lift  the  sash  —  and  live,  the  gale 

Comes  leaping  to  my  call. 
The  rose  is  but  a  painted  one 

That  hangs  upon  the  wall. 
(95) 


AN   INTERPRETATION. 

CHOPIN. 
Prelude  in  C  Minor,  Opus  28. 

FROM  whirlwind  to  shower, 
From  noon-glare  to  shadow, 
From  the  plough  to  the  vesper, 

A  day  is  gone. 
From  passion  to  purpose, 
From  turmoil  to  rest, 
From  discord  to  harmony, 

Life  moveth  on. 

From  terror  and  heartbreak, 
From  anger  of  anguish, 
From  vigil  and  famine, 

A  soul  has  gone. 
By  mercy  of  mystery, 
Through  trust  which  is  best, 
To  feasting  and  sleeping  now, 

God  calleth  on. 
(96) 


THE   SPHINX.1 

O  GLAD  girls'  faces,  hushed  and  fair !  how 

shall  I  sing  for  ye  ? 
For  the  grave  picture  of  a  sphinx  is  all  that 

I  can  see. 

Vain  is  the  driving  of  the  sand,  and  vain  the 

desert's  art ; 
The  years  strive  with  her,  but  she  holds  the 

lion  in  her  heart. 

Baffled  or  fostered,  patient  still,  the  perfect 

purpose  clings  ; 
Flying  or  folded,  strong  as  stone,  she  wears 

the  eagle's  wings. 

Eastward  she   looks  ;   against   the   sky  the 

eternal  morning  lies  ; 
Silent  or  pleading,  veiled  or  free,  she  lifts 

the  woman's  eyes. 

1  Written  for  a  graduating  class  at  Abbott  Academy. 

7  (97) 


98  THE  SPHINX. 

O  grave  girls'  faces,  listening  kind  !  glad  will 

I  sing  for  ye, 
While  the  proud  figure  of  the  sphinx  is  all 

that  I  can  see. 


VICTORS  SALUTAMUS.1 

SHALL  we  who  are  about  to  live, 

Cry  like  a  clarion  on  the  battle-field  ? 

Or  weep  before 't  is   fought,   the    fight    to 

yield  ? 

Thou  that  hast  been  and  yet  that  art  to  be 
Named  by  our  name,  that  art  the  First  and 

Last! 

Womanhood  of  the  future  and  the  past  ! 
Thee  we  salute,  below  the  breath.     Oh,  give 
To  us  the  courage  of  our  mystery. 
.  .  .  Pealing,  the  clock  of  Time 
Has  struck  the  Woman's  Hour.  .  .  . 
We  hear  it  on  our  knees.     For  ah,  no  power 
Is  ours  to  trip  too  lightly  to  the  rhyme 
Of  idle  words  that  fan  the  summer  air, 
Of  bounding  words  that  leap  the  years  to 

come. 

Ideal  of  ourselves  !     We  dream  and  dare. 
Victurae  salutamus  !     Thou  art  dumb. 

1  Written  for  the  first  commencement  at  Smith  College. 

(99) 


THE  ERMINE. 

I  READ  of  the  ermine  to-day, 
Of  the  ermine  who  will  not  step 
By  the  feint  of  a  step  in  the  mire,  — 
The  creature  who  will  not  stain 
Her  garment  of  wild,  white  fire ; 

Of  the  dumb,  flying,  soulless  thing 
(So  we  with  our  souls  dare  to  say), 
The  being  of  sense  and  of  sod, 
That  will  not,  that  will  not  defile 
The  nature  she  took  from  her  God. 

And  we,  with  the  souls  that  we  have, 

Go  cheering  the  hunters  on 

To  a  prey  with  that  pleading  eye. 

She  cannot  go  into  the  mud  ! 

She  can  stay  like  the  snow,  and  die  ! 

The  hunters  come  leaping  on. 
She  turns  like  a  heart  at  bay. 

(100) 


THE  ERMINE.  IQI 

They  do  with  her  as  they  will. 

.  .  .  O  thou  who  thinkest  on  this  ! 

Stand  like  a  star,  and  be  still, 

Where  the  soil  oozes  under  thy  feet. 
Better,  ah,  better  to  die 
Than  to  take  one  step  in  the  mire ! 
Oh,  blessed  to  die  or  to  live, 
With  garments  of  holy  fire  ! 


UNQUENCHED.1 

I  THINK  upon  the  conquering  Greek  who  ran 
(Brave  was  the  racer ! )   that  brave  race  of 

old  — 
Swifter  than  hope  his  feet  that  did  not  tire. 

Calmer  than  love  the  hand  which  reached 

that  goal  ; 

A  torch  it  bore,  and  cherished  to  the  end, 
And  rescued  from  the  winds  the  sacred  fire. 


O  life  the  race  !  O  heart  the  racer !     Hush  ! 
And  listen  long  enough  to  learn  of  him 
Who  sleeps  beneath  the  dust  with  his  desire. 

Go  !  shame  thy  coward  weariness,  and  wail. 
Who  doubles  contest,  doubles  victory. 
Go !  learn  to  run  the  race,  and  carry  fire. 

1  At  the  Promethean  and  other  festivals,  young  men  ran  with  torches 
or  lamps  lighted  from  the  sacrificial  altar.     "  In  this  contest,  only  he 
was  victorious  whose  lamp  remained  unextinguished  in  the  race." 
(102) 


UNQUENCHED.  103 


O   Friend !  The  lip  is  brave,  the  heart  is 

weak. 
Stay  near.     The  runner  faints  —  the  torch 

falls  pale. 
Save    me    the    flame    that    mounteth    ever 

higher  ! 

Grows  it  so  dark  ?    I  lift  mine  eyes  to  thine  ; 
Blazing  within   them,    steadfast,   pure,   and 

strong, 
Against   the  wind  there  fights  the  eternal 

fire. 


THE   KING'S   IMAGE. 

OF  iron   were  his   arms  ;  they   could   have 

held 

The  need  of  half  the  kingdom  up  ;  and  in 
His  brow  were  iron  atoms  too.  Thus  was 
He  built.  His  heart,  observe,  was  wrought 

of  gold, 

Burnished  ;  it  dazzled  one  to  look  at  it. 
His  feet  were  carved  of  clay  —  and  so  he 

fell. 


Clay  unto  clay  shall  perish  and  return. 
The  tooth  of  rust  shall  gnaw  the  iron  down. 
The  conqueror  of  time,  gold  must  endure. 


Thou   great    amalgam !     Suffering    in   thy 
self, 

The  while  inflicting  still  the  certain  fate 
Of  thy  disharmony.     From  Nature's  law, 
(104) 


THE  KING'S  IMAGE.  1 05 

Unto  her  law,  thy  doom  appeals  ;  bids  thee 
To  fear  the  metal  sinews  of  thy  soul, 
And  scorn  the  dust  on  which  thou  totterest ; 
But  save,  oh,  save  the  heart  of  gold  for  one 
Who  did,  beholding,  trust  in  it. 


IV. 


AT  THE  PARTY. 

HALF  a  dozen  children 

At  our  house  ! 
Half  a  dozen  children 

Quiet  as  a  mouse, 
Quiet  as  a  moonbeam, 

You  could  hear  a  pin  — 
Waiting  for  the  party 
To  begin. 

Such  a  flood  of  flounces  ! 

(Oh  dear  me  !) 
Such  a  surge  of  sashes 

Like  a  silken  sea. 
Little  eyes  demurely 

Cast  upon  the  ground, 
Little  airs  and  graces 
All  around. 
(109) 


IIO  AT  THE  PARTY. 

High  time  for  that  party 

To  begin  ! 
To  sit  so  any  longer 

Were  a  sort  of  sin  ; 
As  if  you  were  n't  acquainted 

With  society. 
What  a  thing  to  tell  of 
That  would  be ! 

Up  spoke  a  little  lady 

Aged  five  ; 
"  I  've  tumbled  up  my  over-dress, 

Sure  as  I  'm  alive  ! 
My  dress  came  from  Paris  ; 
We  sent  to  Worth  for  it  ; 
Mother  says  she  calls  it 
Such  a  fit !  " 

Quick  there  piped  another 

Little  voice  — 
"/did  n't  send  for  dresses, 

Though  I  had  my  choice  ; 
/  have  got  a  doll  that 

Came  from  Paris  too  ; 


AT  THE  PARTY.  Ill 

It  can  walk  and  talk  as 
Well  as  you  !  " 

Still,  till  now,  there  sat  one 

Little  girl  ; 
Simple  as  a  snow-drop, 

Without  flounce  or  curl. 
Modest  as  a  primrose, 

Soft,  plain  hair  brushed  back, 
But  the  color  of  her  dress  was 
Black  — all  black. 

Swift  she  glanced  around  with 

Sweet  surprise  ; 
Bright  and  grave  the  look  that 

Widened  in  her  eyes. 
To  entertain  the  party 

She  must  do  her  share, 
As  if  God  had  sent  her 
Stood  she  there ; 

Stood  a  minute,  thinking, 

With  crossed  hands 
How  she  best  might  meet  the 

Company's  demands. 


112  AT  THE  PARTY. 

Grave  and  sweet  the  purpose 

To  the  child's  voice  given  :  — 
"/  have  a  little  brother 

Gone  to  Heaven  !  " 

On  the  little  party 

Dropped  a  spell ; 
All  the  little  flounces 

Rustled  where  they  fell ; 
But  the  modest  maiden 

In  her  mourning  gown, 
Unconscious  as  a  flower, 
Looketh  down. 

Quick  my  heart  besought  her, 

Silently. 

"  Happy  little  maiden, 
Give,  O  give  to  me 
The  highness  of  your  courage, 
The  sweetness  of  your  grace, 
To  speak  a  large  word,  in  a 
Little  place." 


A  JEWISH    LEGEND. 

I  LIKE  that  old,  kind  legend 

Not  found  in  Holy  Writ, 
And  wish  that  John  or  Matthew 

Had  made  Bible  out  of  it. 

But  though  it  is  not  Gospel, 

There  is  no  law  to  hold 
The  heart  from  growing  better 

That  hears  the  story  told  :  — 

How  the  little  Jewish  children 

Upon  a  summer  day, 
Went  down  across  the  meadows 

With  the  Child  Christ  to  play. 

And  in  the  gold-green  valley, 
Where  low  the  reed-grass  lay, 

They  made  them  mock  mud-sparrows 
Out  of  the  meadow  clay. 
8  (113) 


114  A   JEWISH  LEGEND. 

So,  when  these  all  were  fashioned, 

And  ranged  in  rows  about, 
"  Now,"  said  the  little  Jesus, 
"We'll  let  the  birds  fly  out." 

Then  all  the  happy  children 
Did  call,  and  coax,  and  cry  — 

Each  to  his  own  mud-sparrow : 
"Fly,  as  I  bid  you!     Fly!" 

But  earthen  were  the  sparrows, 
And  earth  they  did  remain, 

Though  loud  the  Jewish  children 
Cried  out,  and  cried  again. 

Except  the  one  bird  only 

The  little  Lord  Christ  made  ; 

The  earth  that  owned  Him  Master, 
—  His  earth  heard  and  obeyed. 

Softly  He  leaned  and  whispered  : 
"  Fly  up  to  Heaven  !     Fly  !  " 

And  swift,  His  little  sparrow 
Went  soaring  to  the  sky, 


A   JEWISH  LEGEND. 

And  silent,  all  the  children 
Stood,  awestruck,  looking  on, 

Till,  deep  into  the  heavens, 
The  bird  of  earth  had  gone. 


I  like  to  think,  for  playmate 
We  have  the  Lord  Christ  still, 

And  that  still  above  our  weakness 
He  works  His  mighty  will, 

That  all  our  little  playthings 

Of  earthen  hopes  and  joys 
Shall  be,  by  His  commandment, 

Changed  into  heavenly  toys. 

Our  souls  are  like  the  sparrows 

Imprisoned  in  the  clay, 
Bless  Him  who  came  to  give  them  wings 

Upon  a  Christmas  Day  ! 


V. 


THE  SONGS  OF  SEVENTY  YEARS. 

J.    G.    W. 

MASTER  !  let  stronger  lips  than  these 

Turn  melody  to  harmony, 
Poet !  mine  tremble  as  they  crave 

A  word  alone  with  thee. 

Thy  songs  melt  on  the  vibrant  air, 

The  wild  birds  know  them,  and  the  wind ; 

The  common  light  hath  claim  on  them, 
The  common  heart  and  mind. 

And  air,  and  light,  and  wind,  shall  be 
Thy  fellow-singers,  while  they  say 

How  seventy  years  of  music  stir 
The  common  pulse  to-day. 

Hush,  sweetest  songs  !     Mine  ears  are  deaf 
To  all  of  ye  save  only  one. 
(119) 


I2O        THE  SONGS  OF  SEVENTY  YEARS. 

Blind  are  the  eyes  that  turn  the  leaf 
Against  the  Autumn  sun. 

Oh,  blinder  once  were  fading  eyes, 
Close  folded  now  from  shine  and  rain, 

And  duller  were  the  dying  ears 
That  heard  the  chosen  strain. 

Stay,  solemn  chant !  'T  is  mine  to  sing 
Your  notes  alone  below  the  breath. 

'T  is  mine  to  bless  the  poet  who 
Can  bless  the  hour  of  death. 

For  once  a  spirit  "  sighed  for  home," 
A  "  longed-for  light  whereby  to  see," 

And  "  wearied,"  found  the  way  to  them, 
O  Christian  seer,  through  thee  ! 

Passed  —  with  thy  words  on  paling  lips, 
Passed  —  with  thy  courage  to  depart ; 

Passed  —  with  thy  trust  within  the  soul, 
Thy  music  in  the  heart. 

Oh,  calm  above  our  restlessness, 
And  rich  beyond  our  dreaming,  yet 


THE  SONGS  OF  SEVENTY  YEARS.        121 

In  heaven,  I  know,  one  owes  to  thee 
A  glad  and  grateful  debt. 

From  it  may  learn  some  tenderer  art, 
May  find  and  take  some  better  way 

Than  all  our  tenderest  and  best, 
To  crown  thy  life  to-day. 


BIRTHDAY  VERSES. 

H.    B.    S. 

ARISE,  and  call  her  blessed,  —  seventy  years  ! 
Each  one  a  tongue  to  speak  for  her,  who 

needs 

No  poor  device  of  ours  to  tell  to-day 
The  story  of  her  glory  in  our  hearts. 
Precede  us  all,  ye  quiet  lips  of  love, 
Ye  honors  high  of  home  —  nobilities 
Of  mother  and  of  wife  —  the  heraldry 
Of  happiness  ;  dearer  to  her  than  were 
The  homage  of  the  world.     We  yield  unto 
The  royal  claims  of  tenderness.     Speak  thou 
Before  all  voices,  ripened  human  life  ! 

Arise,    and    call    her    blessed,    dark-browed 

men  ! 

She  put  the  silver  lyre  aside  for  you. 
She  could  not  stroll  across  the  idle  strings 
Of  fancy,  while  you  wept  uncomforted, 

(122) 


BIRTHDAY  VERSES.  123 

But  rang  upon  the  fetters  of  a  race 
Enchained,   the   awful   chord  which   pealed 

along, 

And  echoed  in  the  cannon-shot  that  broke 
The  manacle,  and  bade  the  bound  go  free. 
She  brought  a  Nation  on  its  knees  for  shame, 
She  brought   a  world   into  a  black  slave's 

heart. 

Where  are  our  lighter  laurels  ?   O  my  friends ! 
Brothers  and  sisters  of  the  busy  pen, 
Five   million   freemen    crown   her   birthday 

feast, 
Before  whose  feet  our  little  leaf  we  lay. 

Arise  and  call  her  blessed,  fainting  souls ! 
For  whom  she  sang  the  strains  of  holy  hope. 
Within  the  gentle  twilight  of  her  days, 
Like  angels,  bid  her  own  hymns  visit  her. 
Her  life  no  ivy-tangled  door,  but  wide 
And  welcome  to  His  solemn  feet,  who  need 
Not  knock  for  entrance,  nor  one  ever  ask 
"  Who  cometh  there  ?  "  so  still  and  sure  the 

step, 
So  well  we  know  God  doth  "  abide  in  her." 


124  BIRTHDAY  VERSES. 

Oh,  wait  to  make  her  blessed,  happy  world  !  — 
To  which  she  looketh  onward,  ardently. 
Lie  in  fair  distance  far,  ye  streets  of  gold, 
Where   up   and   down    light-hearted    spirits 

walk, 

And  wonder  that  they  stayed  so  long  away. 
Be  patient  for  her  coming,  for  our  sakes, 
Who  will  love  Heaven  better,  keeping  her. 
This  only  ask  we  :  —  When  from  prayer  to 

praise 
She  moves,  and  when  from  peace  to  joy  ;  be 

hers 

To  know  she  hath  the  life  eternal,  since 
Her  own  heart's*  dearest  wish  did  meet  her 

there. 


A  TRIBUTE. 

BLINDED  I  groped  —  you  gave  me  sight. 

Perplexed  I  turned  —  you  sent  me  light. 

You  speak  unto  a  thousand  ears : 

I  pay  you  tribute  in  hid  tears. 

I  pay  you  homage  in  the  hopes 

That  rise  to  scale  life's  scathed  slopes. 

I  give  you  gratitude  in  this  : 

That,  midway  on  the  precipice 

You  never  trod  and  never  saw, 

Where  air  you  never  drank,  strikes  raw 

And  wan  upon  the  wasted  breath, 

And  gulfs  you  never  passed,  gape  death, 

And  crags  you  gained  some  sunlit  way 

Frown  threatening  over  me  to-day, — 

That  here  with  bruised  hand  I  cling, 

Because  I  heard  you  yonder  sing 

With  those  who  conquer.     If  through  joy, 

Then  deeper  be  our  shame  who  toy 


126  A    TRIBUTE. 

And  loiter  in  the  scourging  rain, 

And  did  not  pass  by  strength  of  pain. 

Laggard  below,  I  reach  to  bless  *«:•  - 

You  who  are  King  of  happiness  ; 

You  are  the  victor,  you  the  brave, 

Who  could  not  stoop  to  be  her  slave. 

Downward  to  me,  rebuking,  fling 

My  privilege  of  suffering. 

I  take  and  listen.     Teach  me.     See  ! 

Nearer  than  you,  I  ought  to  be ; 

Nearer  the  height  man  never  trod, 

Nearer  the  veiled  face  of  God. 

I  ought,  and  am  not.     Comrade !  be 

Unconscious  captain  unto  me. 

Unknowing,  beckon  and  command  : 

I  answer  you  with  unseen  hand. 

You  read  in  vain  these  lines  between, 

And  smiling,  wonder  whom  I  mean. 


TO   O.  W.  H. 

AUGUST   29,   1879. 

I  HAD  no  song  so  wise  and  sweet, 

As  birthday  songs,  dear  friend,  should  be. 

Silent,  among  a  hundred  guests, 
I  only  prayed  for  thee. 

Such  wishes  held  the  speaking  lip, 

Such  mood  of  blessing  took  me,  there, 

That  music,  like  a  bird  to  heaven, 
Flew,  and  was  lost  in  prayer. 
(127) 


WHOSE  SHALL  THE  WELCOME  BE  ? 

H.   W.    L. 

THE  wave  goes  down,  the  wind  goes  down, 
The  gray  tide  glitters  on  the  sea, 

The  moon  seems  praying  in  the  sky. 
Gates  of  the  New  Jerusalem 
(A  perfect  pearl  each  gate  of  them) 

Wide  as  all  heaven  swing  on  high ; 
Whose  shall  the  welcome  be  ? 

The  wave  went  down,  the  wind  went  down, 
The  tide  of  life  turned  out  to  sea ; 

Patience  of  pain  and  grace  of  deed, 
The  glories  of  the  heart  and  brain, 
Treasure  that  shall  not  come  again ; 

The  human  singing  that  we  need, 
Set  to  a  heavenly  key. 

The  wave  goes  down,  the  wind  goes  down, 
All  tides  at  last  turn  to  the  sea. 
(128) 


WHOSE  SHALL  THE  WELCOME  BE?     1 29 

We  learn  to  take  the  thing  we  have. 

Thou  who  hast  taught  us  strength  in  grief, 
As  moon  to  shadow,  high  and  chief, 

Shine  out,  white  soul,  beyond  the  grave, 
And  light  our  loss  of  thee  ! 
9 


EXEAT. 

To  the  hope  that  he  has  taught, 
To  the  beauty  he  has  wrought, 
To  the  comfort  he  has  been ; 
To  the  dream  that  poets  tell, 
To  the  land  where  Gabriel 
Can  not  lose  Evangeline  ;  — 
Hush  !  let  him  go. 
(130) 


GEORGE  ELIOT.1 

AT  evening  once,  the  lowly  men  who  loved 
Our  Master  were  found  desolate,  and  grieved 
For  Him  whose  eyes  had  been  the  glory  of 
Their  lives.     He,  silent,  followed  them,  and 

joined 

Himself  unto  their  sorrow  ;  with  the  voice 
Of  love  that  liveth  past  the  end,  and  yearns 
Like  empty  arms  across  the  sepulchre, 
Did  comfort  them.     They  heard,  and  knew 

Him  not. 

At  eventide,  O  Lord,  one  trod  for  us 
The  solitary  way  of  a  great  Soul  ; 
Whereof  the  peril,  pain,  and  debt,  alone 
He  knows,  who  marked  the  road. 

1  The  last  book  which  she  read  was  Thomas  a  Kempis's 
Imitation  of  Christ- 

(130 


132  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

We  watched,  and  held 
Her  in  our  arms  of  prayer.     We  wept,  and 

said  : 

Our  sister  hath  a  heavy  hurt.     We  bow, 
And   cry :    The   crown  is   buried  with    the 

Queen. 

At  twilight,  as  she,  groping,  sought  for  rest, 
What  solemn  footfall  echoed  down  the  dark  ? 
What  tenderness  that  would  not  let  her  go  ? 
And  patience  that  Love  only  knoweth,  paced 
Silent,  beside  her,  to  the  last,  faint  step  ? 
What  scarred  Hand  gently  caught  her  as  she 

sank  ? 
Thou  being  with  her,  though  she  knew  Thee 

not. 


HER  JURY. 

A  LILY  rooted  in  a  sacred  soil, 

Arrayed  with  those  who  neither  spin  nor  toil ; 

Dinah,  the  preacher,  through  the  purple  air, 

Forever  in  her  gentle  evening  prayer 

Shall  plead  for  Her  —  what  ear  too  deaf  to 

hear  ?  — 
"As  if  she  spoke  to  some  one  very  near." 

And   he   of  storied   Florence,    whose  great 

heart 

Broke  for  its  human  error  ;  wrapped  apart, 
And  scorching  in  the  swift,  prophetic  flame 
Of  passion  for  late  holiness ;  and  shame 
Than  untried  glory  grander,  gladder,  higher  — 
Deathless,  for  Her,  he  "  testifies  by  fire." 

A  statue  fair  and  firm  on  shining  feet, 
Womanhood's  woman,  Dorothea,  sweet 
(i33) 


134  HER  JURY. 

As   strength,  and   strong  as  tenderness,  to 

make 
A  "  struggle  with  the  dark  "  for  white  light's 

sake, 
Immortal  stands,  unanswered  speaks.     Shall 

they, 
Of  Her  great  hand  the  moulded,  breathing 

clay, 

Her  fit,  select,  and  proud  survivors  be  ? 
Possess  the  life  eternal,  and  not  She  ? 


VI. 


A  PRAYER. 

MATINS. 

LORD,   Thou   hast  promised.      Lo !    I  give 

Thee  back 

Thine  own  great  Word.     Keep  it.     I  sum 
mon  Thee. 

Keep  it  as  God  can,  not  as  men  do.     See, 
Great  God !  who  art  to  us  the  awful  Truth 
Whereby  we  live,  and  move,  and  know  the 

true  — 
I  ask  Thee  to  be  true  unto  Thyself. 

There  is  a  soul  that  has  not  sinned  unto 
The  death.     I  pray  for  it.     To  such  as  seek 
For  such  a  one,  O  Power  invisible  ! 
O  Mystery  and  Mercy  !   Thou  hast  said 
Thou    hearkenest.      I   dare    remind   Thee, 
God. 

(137) 


138  A   PRAYER. 

I  dare  appeal  unto  Thine  honor.     Hear  ! 
Fulfill  Thy  pledge  to  me. 

God,  God  !   Great  God  ! 
I  pour  my  soul  out,  dash  it  down  awaste 
Like  water,  as  I  would  my  life,  to  save 
This  other  one.     I  light  my  words  with  fire, 
Like    fagots    scorching    all   my    shrinking 

heart. 

So  would  I  walk  in  fire  with  these  my  feet 
Of  flesh,  if  that  could  melt  this  frozen  heart 
I  pray  for. 

Thou  who  listenest !     Dumb  God  ! 
Had  I  Thy  dreadful  power  to  turn  the  souls 
Of  men  as  they  were  rivers  in  Thy  hand, 
Then  would  I  have  this  noble  one.     I  would 
Not  lose  its  loyalty.     I  tell  Thee,  Lord, 
If  I  had  made  it,  then  it  sure  should  love 
And  honor  me. 

Hearken  to  me  !  Oh,  save  ! 
Give  me  mine  answer  !    Save  ! 

Great  God, 
I  summon  Thee  !  I  summon  Thee ! 

Father, 


A   PRAYER.  139 

I  am  Thy  child.     If  I  have  asked  too  much, 

Or  asked  or  longed  amiss  in  any  wise, 

Or  read  awry  Thy  Word  mysterious, 

Or  made  one  cry  unworthy  of  a  child, 

I  pray  Thee  to  deny  me  all  I  ask 

Unto  my  asking,  and  rebuke  me  so. 

And  if  Thou   savest,  Lord,  dear  Lord,  dear 

Lord! 

Then  let  it  be  because  some  worthier 
Than  I,  did  pray 


AN  ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 

FOR  the  faith  that  is  not  broken 

By  the  burden  of  the  day  ; 
For  the  word  that  is  not  spoken 

(Dearest  words  are  slow  to  say) ; 
For  the  golden  draught  unproffered 

To  the  thirst  that  thirsteth  on  ; 
For  the  hand  that  is  not  offered 

When  the  struggling  strength  is  gone ; 
For  the  sturdy  heart  that  will  not 

Make  a  pauper  of  my  need ; 
Friend,  I  mean  sometime  to  thank  thee, 

From  my  soul,  in  truth  and  deed. 
Wait !  Some  day,  when  I  am  braver, 

I  will  do  so  —  say  so.     Now 
(Oh  !  be  tender  !)  I  am  tired ; 

I  have  forgotten  how. 
(140) 


HYMN. 
FOR  A  BROTHER'S  INSTALLATION. 

LORD,  are  there  any  stones  upon  the  way, 

That  tear  Thy  bleeding  feet  ? 
If  our  weak  hands  can  move  them  from  Thy 
path, 

Give  us  that  duty  sweet. 

Is  there,  O  patient  and  pathetic  Face  ! 

One  thorn  upon  Thy  brow 
That  we    can   pluck   from   out   Thy   cruel 
crown  ? 

For  we  would  do  it  now. 

Is  there  a  deed  so  difficult  for  us 
That  none  but  Thou  canst  ask  ? 

Thine  asking  be  our  answering.     Lo  !  swift 
Be  ours  that  happy  task. 
(141) 


142  HYMN. 

Lord,   hast  Thou  left  Thy  hungry  in  the 
world 

For  us  to  find,  to  feed  ? 
Sharper  the  hungers  of  the  soul.     Give  us 

Nutrition  for  that  need. 

And  hast  Thou  prisoners  unvisited, 
Whose  woes  our  care  should  tell  ? 

There  is  a  deeper  prison  of  the  heart ; 
Help  us  to  find  that  cell. 

Is  there  a  mourner  dear  to  Thee,  whom  we 

Have  left  uncomforted  ? 
Yet  still  through  lonelier  loneliness,  the  heart 

Bereft  of  Thee,  is  led. 

O  world  of  common,  human  cries  !  and  calls 

Of  souls  in  direst  need ! 
To   meet    ye,    mighty   were    the    love    that 
sought 

To  take  the  Master's  speed. 

Give  us  that  love,  dear  God,  who  gave  to  us 
To  bear  His  loving  name. 


HYMN.  143 

Give  us  that  sacred  speed  to  keep  the  step 
That  strikes  with  His  the  same. 

Waves  of  one  tide,  this  people  be  !  and  flow 

Straight  shoreward  to  Thy  will. 
White  as  a  dove,  upon  them,  now  descend 

Thy  Spirit,  strong  and  still. 

Thy  blessings  on  their  future  rest  and  brood, 
—  The  brightest,  lip  can  tell,  — 

In  home  and  heart,  in  faith  and  fact,  O  best 
Of  daily  mercy  !  dwell. 

With   those   who   summon  —  trusting  it   to 

lead 

Their  feet  to  walk  Christ's  way  — 
The  voice  of  him  on  whose  bowed  head,  I 

call 
The  grace  of  God  to-day. 


ANSWERED. 

WHY  did  I  never  sing  a  song  to  you  ? 

Dearest !  To  you  again,  behold  the  ques 
tion  start. 

To  mine  own  pulses  have  I  ever  sung  ?  Or  do 
I  read  a  rhyme  unto  my  beating  heart  ? 
(144) 


WESTWARD. 

MY  thoughts  like  waves  creep  up,  creep  on, 

How  patient  is  the  sea ! 
How  shall  we  climb  —  the  tide  and  I  — 

Up  to  the  hills  and  thee  ? 

Were  waters  free  as  winds,  to  go 
Where  mood  or  need  might  be, 

They  could  but  find  the  sky,  above 
The  canon  as  the  sea. 

10  (145) 


THREE   FRIENDS. 

OH,  not  to  you,  my  mentor  sweet, 
And  stern  as  only  sweetness  can, 

Whose  grave  eyes  look  out  steadfastly 
Across  my  nature's  plan, 

And  take  unerring  measure  down 
Where'er  that  plan  is  failed  or  foiled, 

Thinking  far  less  of  purpose  kept 
Than  of  a  vision  spoiled. 

And  tender  less  to  what  I  am, 

Than  sad  for  what  I  might  have  been ; 

And  walking  softly  before  God 
For  my  soul's  sake,  I  ween. 

'T  is  not  to  you,  my  spirit  leans, 

O   grave,  true  judge  !     When  spent  with 
strife, 

(146) 


THREE  FRIENDS.  147 

And  groping  out  of  gloom  for  light, 
And  out  of  death  for  life. 


Nor  yet  to  you,  who  calmly  weigh 
And  measure  every  grace  and  fault, 

Whose  martial  nature  never  turns 
From  right  to  left,  to  halt 

For  any  glamour  of  the  heart, 

Or  any  glow  that  ever  is, 
Grander  than  Truth's  high  noonday  glare, 

In  love's  sweet  sunrises  ; 

Who  know  me  by  the  duller  hues 

Of  common  nights  and  common  days, 

And  in  their  sober  atmospheres 
Find  level  blame  and  praise. 


True  hearts  and  dear  !  't  is  not  in  you, 
This  fainting,  warring  soul  of  mine 

Finds  silver  carven  chalices, 
To  hold  life's  choicest  wine 

Unto  its  thirsty  lips,  and  bid 

It  drink,  and  breathe,  and  battle  on, 


148  THREE  FRIENDS. 

Till  all  its  dreams  are  deeds  at  last, 
And  all  its  heights  are  won. 


I  turn  to  you,  confiding  love. 

O  lifted  eyes  !  look  trustfully, 
Till  Heaven  shall  lend  you  other  light. 

Like  kneeling  saints  —  on  me. 

And  let  me  be  to  you,  dear  eyes, 
The  thing  I  am  not,  till  I,  too, 

Shall  see  as  I  am  seen,  and  stand 
At  last  revealed  to  you. 

And  let  me  nobler  than  I  am, 

And  braver  still,  eternally, 
And  finer,  truer,  purer,  than 

My  finest,  purest,  be 

To  your  sweet  vision.  There  I  stand 
Transfigured  fair  in  love's  deceit, 

And  while  your  soul  looks  up  to  mine, 
My  heart  lies  at  your  feet. 

Believe  me  better  than  my  best, 

And  stronger  than  my  strength  can  hold, 


THREE  FRIENDS.  149 

Until  your  magic  faith  transmute 
My  pebbles  into  gold. 

I'll  be  the  thing  you  hold  me,  Dear  !  — 

After  I  'm  dead,  if  not  before  — 
Nor,  through  the  climbing  ages,  will 

I  give  the  conflict  o'er. 

But  if  upon  the  Perfect  Peace, 

And  past  the  thing  that  was,  and  is, 

And  past  the  lure  of  voices,  in 
A  world  of  silences, 

A  pain  can  crawl  —  a  little  one  — 

A  cloud  upon  a  sunlit  land  ; 
I  think  in  Heaven  my  heart  must  ache  — 

That  you  should  understand. 


A   NEW   FRIEND. 

THE  sun  is  sinking  on  the  sacred  lands 
Wherein    the   grain   ungarnered   beckoning 
stands. 

Who  loses  never  finds,  nor  can,  nor  may, 
The  common,  human  glory  of  the  day. 

Close,  let  us  enter,  tear-blind  as  we  must ; 
Reapers,  not  gleaners  of  a  solemn  trust. 
(150) 


AN   ETCHING. 

A  TRUE  knight !     Knowing  neither  worldly 

fear, 

Nor  yet  reproach  of  her  unworldly  faith  ; 
Fine  eyes  shall  see,  yet  see  not,  on  this  page, 
A  man,  who  from  a  woman's  heart  of  hearts 
Could   earn,  and  keep,  the  sacred  name  of 

Friend. 

(151) 


TO   MY   FATHER. 

TIRED  with  the  little  follies  of  the  day, 
A  child  crept,  sobbing,  to  your  arms  to  say 
Her  evening  prayer ;  and  if  by  God  or  you 
Forgiven  and  loved,  she  never  asked  or  knew. 

With  life's  mistake  and  care  too  early  old, 
And  spent  with  sorrow  upon  sorrow  told, 
She  finds  the  father's  heart  the  surest  rest ; 
The  earliest  love  shall  be  the  last  and  best. 
(152) 


THE   GATES   BETWEEN. 

PEARL- white,  opaque  and  fixed  fast, 

Flashing  between  the  hands  unclasped, 

Blinding  between  despairing  eyes, 

The  awful  Gates  shut  to,  at  last, 

On  comfort  snatched,  and  anguish  done, 

On  every  moan  beneath  the  sun, 

Till  we  and  ours,  and  joy  are  one. 

This  is  your  hour,  Gates  of  God, 
Your  solemn  hour,  bars  of  gold, 
But  there  shall  come  another  yet. 
Like  silken  sails  you  shall  be  furled, 
Like  melting  mist  you  shall  be  set. 

Oh,  ye  the  dearest !  vanished  from 
Love's  little  inner,  sheltered  spot. 
To  ye  I  whisper  ;  not  forgot, 
But  loved  the  dearer,  named  not. 
Across  the  barrier  old  as  life, 
Lean  to  us  from  the  Silent  World. 
(i53) 


A   PRAYER. 

VESPERS. 

GREAT  God ! 

Behold,  I  lie 

Beneath  Thine  awful  eye, 

As  the  sea  beneath  the  sky. 

My  God, 

What  hope  abides  ? 

Thine  unknown  purpose  rides 

The  torrent  of  my  tides. 

Dear  God, 

I  am  not  a  shore,  or  hill, 

An  ocean  must  take  still 

The  colors  of  the  heavens'  will. 

Choose,  God. 

Though  days  be  blue,  or  gold, 
Though  sorrows  new,  or  cold, 
d54) 


A   PRAYER.  155 

Though  purple  joy  be  there, 
Or  gray  of  old  despair, 
Give  but  Thyself  to  me, 
And  let  me  be  Thy  sea. 
Thy  storms  have  had  their  way. 
I  pray  now  not  to  pray. 


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